


Abbagellon

by MippyMoo



Category: MassiveCraft - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gore, Horror, It Gets Worse, MassiveCraft, POV Second Person, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, This is BAD yall, trust me - Freeform, you better have a strong stomach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MippyMoo/pseuds/MippyMoo
Summary: You could shrug it off and take your leave and go for drinks and try to meet up with your friends. You could even try to make some new friends, and gods know you need them. But, you are curious. You always have been, ever since you were a child, and it always got you into trouble, got you sick, got you hurt. Over the years, you've stopped really caring about that.This is your downfall.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Abbagellon

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS, THIS ONE IS VERY BAD. No specific characters, just anonymous faces. Bear with the formatting, it's intentional.

A small sound emanates from down the sewer tunnel you walk through, and you take pause. You strain your ears for some hint of the noise again, for some hint of life, and you are about to give up when you hear it again, slightly louder and slightly more pained. It sounds like the sickened cry of a farm animal, perhaps a goat or even an elk, a failed attempt at a slaughter before leaving it to die. Your heart makes a slight wrenching, sympathetic movement at the same time as your brows crease in doubt and confusion. How could such an animal be drawn down to the sewers?

Perhaps a vampire dragged it down to feed, had gone feral and off the deep end of the already dark pit it had fallen into in the first place. Maybe it was shoved down by a group of stupid, laughing children, who knew it would die slowly down here with nothing but feces and disease and stench floating through the central canal.

You could shrug it off and take your leave and go for drinks and try to meet up with your friends. You could even try to make some new friends, and gods know you need them. But, you are curious. You always have been, ever since you were a child, and it always got you into trouble, got you sick, got you hurt. Over the years, you've stopped really caring about that.

This is your downfall.

The noise comes again and it sounds so much more pained, more starved, more at the doorstep of death than it had been before, and this alongside your insistent nagging at the back of your mind spurs you into movement. You begin taking soft steps down the walkway of the sewers, and you lift your hand to run your fingertips along the mossy, stone walls as though reassuring yourself that this isn't in your head, reminding you that this is solid and real.

After reaching an intersection, you pause, listening hard for the noise. It does not take long this time, sounding closer than before, and a small bit of hope soars in your chest. You turn your head toward the tunnel the sound came from, and it seems like the darkest one you could take.

You heed it little to no mind.

After traveling only a few meters down in that direction, the now slightly strangled cry comes from your left, and you turn your head to find a hole in the brick and stone walls of the sewers. From what you can tell, it is dark inside there, and there are no sources of light.

However, as you walk inside, something topples over, a glass smashes onto the ground, and you flinch and turn around to try and see the source of it. Something scuttles across the floor, the squeaking of a rat, and you figure that must have been what knocked over the bottle. But where are you?

The scampering noises of tiny paws on the stone stop abruptly, and a terrified and animalistic squeak follows, followed by a sickening squelching sound. The rat no longer makes any noise, stopped in its tracks, in its breath, and you are completely still as everything around you darkens, the hole you had come through disappearing and not even the dim light around you visible anymore.

You've been lured into a trap.

Suddenly, the air fills with the horrid stench of rotten flesh, stripped from the bone and cooked over a black flame fueled with the waste of its victim. You gag, covering your mouth, and bile fills your throat as you try to block it out, but to no avail—it forces itself through your nose, coats the inside of your lungs, and you can barely stand it, stumbling and actually falling backward. Your palms shoot out to keep yourself from collapsing completely and hitting your head, but that only allows the smell to take further control.

Then come the figures. Liquid begins to pool on the floor from nowhere, then something, _many_ things, rise from them, coagulating almost like the scabbing of a wound, then continue up and up and up until they are impossibly tall, impossibly dark, and impossibly terrifying. Amalgamations of flesh, bone, blood, and bile formed from nothing, and they sprout emaciated hands, faces with teeth inside their eyes, and horrible crying noises, like the sobs of a starving infant or a dying witch. You scramble backward, but your back hits the cold wall, trapping you between it and these horrors. They begin to reach for you, arms outstretched, begging for your help, they're in so much pain, please make it stop, you can do something can't you? The flesh begins to strip from their arms, sloughing off in layers upon layers, and you can see bone but it just keeps coming. Tears begin to stream from your eyes because of the stench of it, of the fire boiling them alive and stealing their skins, and it won't stop _torturing_ them, won't leave them alone, won't leave _you_ alone.

They moan, in pain and sorrow, for their lives. Their mourning begins to permeate your soul (the part that isn't taken up with absolute and sheer terror, of disgust and pleading for a god, any god, to come and save you from this hell), and you can do nothing but curl in on yourself, cover your head and, and scream. You try to drown out the pleading, do anything, but your voice comes out hollow, muffled, and blocked. You shake in terror, wishing for it to stop, begging for it—

And they do. The crying stops, but you can still hear the wet _plop_ , _schlik, schlik_ noises of their flesh coming off in rivulets. You don't allow yourself to look up, but you are relieved at least somewhat.

**T̴̴̸̵̸̢͚̻̙̫̼̟͍͎͙͕̻̐͒͊̓̐͌͛͘͠͝͝h̴̵̵̴̸̙̦͓͔̙͇͎͙̪͎͓͍͆̽̿̈́̽̓̓͘͠͝e̸̵̸̵̵̡̢̼͎̝̙̫̙͕̞͔͐͑͊̿̓̈́̈́̓̔̐͜͝s̴̵̴̵̵͉̪̟͍͉͙͚͕͉͙̻̔̿̽͒͒̔̾̓͒͛̚e̴̸̵̸̸̡̝̝̘͇̠̙̞͚̪̙͑̒͛̾͊̕̕͘͜ a̵̴̵̴̵̢̘͇̻͖͍̦̺͇͔͖͕̓̽͋̈́͆̔͘̕͘͝͠͝r̴̴̵̵̵͇͖̘̻̺͔̫̝͇̔̾͆͆͒̒̕͜͜͠͠e̴̵̸̴̸͓͙͖̪̺̞̼͙̼͇̙̔̿̓͋͛̿͒͒̈́̚̕͜͝ t̸̵̴̵̴͎̙͇͍͓͙͖̙͚̠͚͊̐̿͆͆͊̓̚͝ḧ̵̴̵̸̴̢͚͇͙̦̦̞͓͖̙̟͖́̈́̔̾͋̔͋̕̚̕e̸̴̴̴̴̢̡̝͖̫͔̞̫͓͇͕̪͛͋̓̽͛͊̒̈́̈́͒͐ s̵̴̸̵̴̡̢̫͕͇̘̻͙̘͚͇͎͌̈́͐͋̓͌͑͌̕͝i̴̸̵̴̵̞̠̝̺̦̟̺͙̻̻̞̘̽͆͆̈́̓̓͝͝͝n̸̸̸̸̵̢̡̞͇̻̪͍̻̫͇͛̐͒̾̓͆͐̒̿͋͜s̵̸̵̸̵̢̡̢̞̠̞͉͓͔͚̔̓̐͐̈́̾͛͐̾͠ o̵̸̵̸̵̘̺̦̝̞͙̠̦̙͙͇̺̽̓̽̒̒͑̓͊͘͝f̸̸̸̴̸̡̻̦̝̪͕̞͖͔̘̦̈́͊̒͛͒̒̐͐̚͝͝ y̴̵̴̵̸̡͚͎͖͖̘̟̟͚͕͓̿͌̾̒̾̾̿̾͛̕͜o̴̴̵̵̴͖͖̪͎̻͓͚̺͔̠͕͋̾͛͛̾̓̐͛͘͜ǘ̸̸̸̵̸̠͉͔̞͖̝̪͕͔̝͎̝̾͛̈́̒͊̓̿̿̚͠͠r̸̴̵̸̴̢̡̼͉̼̟̻͙͍̝̫̟̔̽͆͑͌̿̔͋̚ k̸̵̸̴̴̡̢̢͙͍͚̫̻͔̙̼͆͆͒͐̿͛̒͝͝͠i̴̸̵̴̴̢̺͕̺̘͍͕̺̝͙̘̪͌͒̿͌̾̾͊̐͑̕̚n̵̸̴̸̴̡̢̦͉̞̺̞̠̻̟͋̈́̐͌͊̒͌̈́̈́̕͘͝d̸̸̴̵̴̢͔͍͕͍͎̫̠̟̫͌̿̓͊̓̈́͋̐̕͜͝.̵̴̴̵̵̢̪̝͖͎̘͖̠̦͓͎̿͊͌͌͐͋͋͐͌̕**

You thought you were frozen in fear before, but that was nothing compared to this primal _terror_. The voice came from somewhere deep, somewhere horrifying, somewhere cruel. You do not recognize it (after all, where would you have heard the voice of the Void itself before?), but you slowly, ever so slowly, lift your head.

Standing in front of you is a horrifying creature, looking dead and decaying, the almost complete skin of a Kathar cut off of its original body and draped and stretched over bones visible from its hanging jaw. Its bones are all different shapes and sizes and don't support the skin well, as if it were doing its job at all. Nothing is between the bleach-white bones and the sagging gray skin, and it reaches toward you, and it looks as though its eyes are sewn open, and there are blue wisps of fire there where eyes should be, and oh, it's brandishing a knife, and it carefully,

cleanly,

quickly,

with little to no effort

slices across your throat.

You try to scream, but all that comes out is a gurgled noise, blood spurting from the wound rupturing your vocal cords and pouring warm liquid into your esophagus and lungs. It suffocates you, halting and stuttering your already irregular rhythm of breathing, and your chest eventually stops, stills.

You fall to your knees, and your blurry vision falls to your hands, which you hadn't even noticed had been at your neck, but they must have been because they're covered in blood too now, and you look past them and see the limp-skinned feet of the _horror_ before you that did this, and it looks as though the skin doesn't fit because it _doesn't_ , it never will, it's not supposed to, it's horrific and graphic and your vision is going.

And as your vision passes, goes fuzzy to grey to dark to black, you feel the knife against your skin again, right against where it cut open your throat, and the thing, with loose skin draped over curling bone fingers, angles the knife just so, and it begins to dig into your skin, up under the cut, pulling the skin away from your flesh.

**I̷̢̛̮͉͙̮͖̖͙̤͉͋̌͒̂̂̍͂͒̑̓̋̌̇̉̓̔͛̄̈́͊̔̏̐̕̕͜͜͝͝ͅ ̴̖̥͔̺͚͉̜͚͕̝̙̙͉͔̯̭̣̖̞̜̐̎̈́̓̅̂̽́̓͗̓̈̽̏͐̉̇̆̿͆̀̆̐̽̾̎͐̊̕̚͜͝͝͠ͅͅ ̴͕̩͇̞̠̘͓͈̳̤̱̪͔̖̗̜͕̐͋̉̐̐͗̊̌̇̃͋̇͗̀̏̆͒̈̿͛̔̀̈̄̒͗͆͂̐̉͜͜͝͝͠͠ ̷̪̰̟͉͑̅̏̃̊́̃̇̊͌h̷̛̪̤̭̞̼͚͔͓̼̣̲͖̼̊̉̈́̃̈́̌̀͆̓̅̃̈̏̍̈̍̏̔̆̐̍́̓͐̿̋̈̈́̾̍͛͛͘̕͘̕͠͝ ̸̨̧̛̻̺̲̝͕̟̭͗͗̾͐̈͊͌͗̿͗͝͝ͅͅợ̸̧̨̢̨̨̡̩̼̮̦̻̤̩̖̦̣͙̭̝̯͙͖̰̖̪̼̩͙̘̬̮̼̻̰͔̲͚̖͕̰̅̿̿͐̌̍̈́̽͋̎͋̓́̈́͑̊͛͛̉͗̄̂͑̐̄̐̃̒̾̒͐̊̍͑̇͘͘̕͜͜͠͠ͅ ̴̛͉̄̔̃͆̈́͑́͊͝͝p̶̨̢̨̢͎̣̬̼̰̜̖̥̺̱͇̙͖͉̦̯̯͓̖̩͓͎͚͚̲̩͇̪̪̝̅͛͌̇̎͜ͅ ̴̹̰̫̝̦͓̯̲͙͉̺̏̅̎͗̃͒̐̈́͆̓̓̈́̃̓͆̈̽́̍̍͛̿̀̓̾̾͗͐̌̏͆̈́͋͑͛͑͘̕͘͜͝ȩ̶̢̢̧̹̜̘̭̘̳̱̦̳̳̝̲̲̟̞͙̥̲̳͚͎̤̫̘̣̺̥͍̟̟͉̭̱̲͇̦̮̟͕̯̪̓̐̔͊̔͑̓͑͒͊͋͆̄̍̐̿̐̏̈́̆̆͆͋̍͝͝͝ͅ ̸̢̢̢̢̨̡̛̛̛̯͕̟̺̠̠͓̖͕̗̣̯̥̮͔̦̮̤̺̯̖͓̤̦̼̲̝̻̗̜̤̜͚̾̓͋̌͛̑̂͛̈́̉̏͌̍̆͒̍̈̿̉̐̑̑̐̈́̉̿͑̔͆̊̿̽̓̈́͊̆͘͜͝͠͠ͅ ̶̨̨̡̡̘͉͙̻͍̟̜̲̻͖̤̹̰̞̤̞̞̥̹͎̱̩͚̱̈́̓̋̾̊͒̍͜ ̸̡̨̛͚̼̟̹̦̠͎̞̜̖̭͎͚̬͎̜͕͉̩̤̲͎̩͖̦̬͇̺̘̼͚͕̓̍͋͋̓̆̐̌̈́̓̎̽͒̓̋̚͘̚̕͜͜͠ȳ̵̨̛̗̲͉͓̺̭͍͉̿͑̊͂̏̄̽͒͗͑̾̈́̈́̚͠͝ ̴̢̖̟̬͔̯̱̪̳̤͓̭͑̒̏͊͑̎̐́̈́̂̅̈́͊̏͌̉̎̒̄̃̈́̉̽̽̿́̉̿̊̐̈́̔̐̄̚̕ờ̴̡̖̙͇̥͓̲̮͖̪̬͇̫̻͉̰̩̦̯̱̥̠̬͉̜̙̹̬̠̟͇̹͉̭̱͖͍͈͚̘̮̺̑͆̅̀̾̄̓͌̌̑̊̆̀͊͗̇̓̑̒͌̕̕̕͜͜͝ ̴̧̨̢̨̢̢͎̻͇̪̳̲̘̱̰̱̱͍̤̜͎̮͔̰̦͔̞̻̟̫̍͜ͅų̶̳̜͕̙̬̪̝̠̻̩̹̜̣͍̻͈͎͎̗̰̗͚͇͍̹̱̟͇͈̳̪̻̭̰̰͇̼̭̬̋͛͊̉̿̌̈́͑̊̚͘͜͜͠ͅ ̸̢̙͙̙͔̱̟̼̰̥̪̤̻̱̝͈̣̬̩̒̀̔̑́͆̍̊͛̓̈̔̊͑͂͠ͅ'̵̺̩͕̫̦͔̀̇̋̒̾̆̕͜͝ ̷̧̢̨̯͔̬͚͙͇̲̪̩̲̜̟̪̉̈͗̿̿͒͂̇̆̾̍͛͌͋̊̽̄͗̓́̈͛̿̿͛͌̋͘͘̕̚͘͘͝͝͠ŕ̴̢̢̹͈̰̘̰̰̹͖̬͈̤̰̪̻̍͒͐͑̔̆̆̆̊͛̏̽̐̀͐̉̍͊̒͆͒̆͗̈́̌̔̇̈́̓̈́͋̕͝ ̵̧̡̬̯̹̦͖͚̖̥̦̣̗̘͉̟̩̟̰͖̥̭͔͙̣̤̺̱͙͍͙͈̘̤̝̰̤͙͙͇͎͚͕̹̘̐̽̃̆̌͊̓̇͑̌̇̋́̈́͆͂̋̅͌̐̏̅̄̇̚̕͜͠͝e̵̦̯̥̫̬̩̞̻̮͙̍̆̈́̏̃̑̈́͐̅͋͆̒̔͗̋͑̇͋͂̌̉̄͌͆̓̒̄̾̓̉̉̿̈͂͛̄͐̈́̒͘̕̚͝͠ͅ ̷̧̛̜͓̲̻͎̰̱̬̞̫̻̬͖͕̖̈́͌̀̎͒̍̓̍͜͜͠ ̵̛̛̼̈́̅͑̒͋͐̿͂̓͒̽̊̉̓͌͒̿͒͛̆̅̄̇͘͝͝ ̵̛̛͉̻̩͔̝̙̥̹̰̫̟͕͙̗͕̭͕̰͔͙̭̬̗͍͇͓̎́̂͊̃͂̈̇́̿͂̈́̄̉͛̊̎͂̇͐̑̈́͐̊͑̓͋͘̕͜͜͝͝d̶̨̛͈̮͈̳̙͎̘̘̒̓̏͊̇̉̾̉͌̎̇̊́͋̽̔̐̌̒͗̊͒̈́̒̄̾̾́̀͋̔̚̕͜͝ ̴̨͔͙̳͖̝̰͎̥̫̜̱̘̻̣͓̦͙͈̗͙̖̦̠̝̦͕̖̯̱̝̞̈́̾́͊̈́̇͐́̊̔͑̏̆̓̀͑̓̈́̈́̓̈̋̇̆̈̉̇̽̿͛̕̕͝͠͝ͅo̷̢̖̹̺̻̻̯̦̩̯̙̙̗̙̹̪̯͙͇͈̰̩̱̟̯̰̟̹̦̅̂͐̃̾̄͋̽͆̽̔̍͑̄́͜͝ ̴̧̡̢̨̨̡̛̛̹̳͕̖̫̠̙̮̼̣̜̫͈͖̫͓̘̜̮̠͙̯̟̼̟̪̬̥͇̘̹͑͐̉̓̉́̓̎͆͛̊̎̅̃̓͂̈́̅͑͐̉̎̕̚̚̚͘̕͘͜͜ň̵̗̮͍̒̆͗̓̉̇̓̇͝ ̶̢̛̻̪̭͕̳̭̗̹̜̯̖̥̬̫̺͙̥̪̹̦͍̰̱͎̻̣͎̻̩̬͉̰͒̅͗̐̂̓̌͒̏͗͌̾̊͗͊͐͊̍̔̄͆̉̅̾͑͐́̈́͋̅̽̉̓͊͛͒̉͐͘͝ę̵̢̢̛̛̤̮͚͍̩̺̼̻͔͚̖͇̞̼̫͇͍̩̞̦̜̳͔̺͖̣̲̟͎̺̀̈́̈̾͛̒͂̔̋̑̈͌̓̂̉͐͒͗̈͛̉͊̒̐̍̽́͌̿̓̑̉̒͋̇́̎̚̕̕͜͠͠ ̵̧̢̛̘̯̭̲̪͖̻̭̪͎̮̱̳͔͚̥̫͔̱͇̇͆̓̏̇͗̉͋̈́ ̵̧̨̧̢̢͉̱̹͍̞̦͉̥̥̱̘͇͓̹͇̫̙͇͈̦̲̌̍́͛͑͆͐̓͊̒̎̍̅̿̉̾̊̾͆͐͘͘̚͘͘͝͝͠͠ͅ ̴̨̡̧̨̨̯̝̼̫̥̬͈̠̘̼̘̖̞̺̳̳̠͓͚̞̙͚̘͎̲̳̞͍̤͓̭͂̅̇̉̀̃̈́͒ͅͅd̷̨̡̜̲̠̥̬̺̘͍̫͇̖̣͕̯̝͓̬̭̺͇̩̗̤̿̽̓͊̑͊̀̉͘̕͜͠ ̷̧̡̩̻̜̫̇͗͐̔̉̆͌̐̓͑̅͜͝ŗ̶̢̢̧̢̠̞̤̟̱̣͎͕̹͍͇̬͕̤̘̣̤̺͎̘̝͇̖̪̞͓̗̘̼̖̟̲͖̪͚͎͜͜͜ͅ ̶̡̨̨̢̢̯̘̫̭͙̦̻͍͍͙̟͙͚̬̫̜͈̮̭̦̺̮̳̲̥̤͎̬̝̪̳͚̱̖͓̣̰̈̍̋̆̇̒͌̚̚e̷̢̡̨̡̛̜͔̞̭͇̦̠͓͙̼̞͚͖̱͔̫̯̹͚̓͋̑̅̄̽̂̓̏̈́̔̓̏̎̿̄͐̈́͒̿̍̈̈́̈́̏͊̉̉̉̌̽̌͘͘͜͝ͅͅ ̴̢̧̧̖͕̟̮̗̗̬̹̦̲̮̟͇̩͉̬̮͙̦͚͉̟̩̪̞͓̟̜͍͇͐̏̽̓̓͆̈́̉̀̈̄̂̐͘̕͝ͅa̶̧̨̨̛̛̳̺̭̲̗͔͇̝̪̗͚̻͉̰͓̫̻̳̱̱͇̣͍͛̊̈́͌͌͌̈́ ̷̨̛̼͙̯̤̞̬͎̯̝̏̉̈́͆̓́͐̄͛̅̕̚͠͝͠ͅm̷̧̢̨͉̣͚̝͓̜̜̳̙͔͎͍̖̪̳̹̲̘̠̮̯̥͐͛ ̷̨̩͓̠̳̞̬̺̜̜̹̮̮̬̩͕̼̲̞͓͈͍͎̜̫̰̪͎̏̇̽̈́̿̿̿͆̾̈́̿̓̇̃̓̇́͗̏̕̚i̶̢̨̛͓͇̮̩̘̟͙͓͚̮̘̤̭̥̫̫͕͈͖͓̦̦̦͉̝͖͕̺̱̟̾̿́̏̒̓̃̃̆̓̉͐̐͒̊̒̓̽͒͛̍̌̈́͊̂̋̽̈́̏͐͆͘͘͜͝ ̸̡̢̨̗̣̬̭̼̙̥̻̙̺̻̞̪̠͕̟̍̓̏̈́̎̂͗̊͆̾̄̑̈́́̐̃͑̐̒͛̇͌͑͌͌͆͗̋̐̿̾̆̕̕̕͝͝n̴̢̛͓̭̙͓̖̫̣̅͗̈́̓̀͐͊̾͂͋͌̌̾̏̆̔̉̉̉̚̕͜͠ ̷̡̨̧̢̢̡̫͍͓̯̫͖̝̥͔͍̪̝̰̮͉̗̠̣̭͚̼͔͉͔̯̻̬͆̇͛̈̿͜͝ͅͅg̷̢̜̰̺͖̱̟̺̭͔͉͐̿̊̽̾̓̌̿̓͐͆̿̅̑̃͂͊̾̒̀̅̓̏̎͊́͌̋͂̓̐͝͝͝͝ͅ ̸̧̛̛͍͕̠̙̞̗̳̫̗̥͚͎̜͚̈͗͗̌͐̀͆͑͑͑̃͋̈́̓̅͐̅̾̂̈̒̽͑̕͜͠.̵̨̨̡͎̫̭͙͙̮̰̼͔͉͇̤͖̞̤̫͓̮͇̉͗̾̍̿̽̇̍̎̆͗̈͒͌͜͠**

**Author's Note:**

> Basically my attempts to horrify and sicken the reader with every word. How'd I do?
> 
> This story came from the half-formed depths of my sleep-addled mind at 1 AM in ... September? while reading over the most recent rewrite of Void Worship on the MassiveCraft wiki. I thought, "What if a Defiler of Hallows (now Capradeim werebeast) Void Worshipper was an Url, who could make limited animal noises, and draped the skin of their victims over their bone golems?" A very morbid thought, but good for a horror story, I hoped. Please tell me what you thought of it!


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